Blog-azic

A maple moon rose low in the east. Its watery light filtered through sleeping trees, diluting the cool, humid dark. The night tasted sweet in my mind, but it was also bitter. A familiar taste, sure. I chase the bitter sweet because it’s where I feel most alive. But now, there was a presence in the space I never knew before. I walked these dark paths fifteen and more years ago, longing to fade away into my private vision of nature. Now, I could remember the longing, but it was old. I was outside it looking in. A new perspective. Is this the wisdom of age? Susan and I were walking the college green, past Cutler Hall on the north side. I gestured to the thin redwood, bearing a new gash. The spreading maple was gone, with a young black gum in its place. A trio of sycamores arched over head, spread out long glowing arms, and made a cathedral. The kind, old Norway spruce still watched Scrips Amphitheater. I wanted to stop and converse with all of them, but we walked on, sipping a decaf

In the heart of the Red River Valley, in the city of Winnipeg, CA, before winter had even officially begun, Hafed and I braced against a biting wind. The stark streets (purely northern their utility) offered no hope against the sting. We trudged by the art museum. Large black statues outside were unimpressed by the cold and unsympathetic to our plight. They sat like pharaohs, almost facing each other but really looking over one another’s shoulder to eternity. They are stone, after all, and unflinching, generally unconcerned with here and now. In contrast, We are flesh and crumpling in the wind. We are shedding and wearing down, and our bodies exert their all trying to repair the damage, to stave off inevitability. They fail, as a matter of course, and they fail quickly - the blink of those statues’ stone eye. Of course, the same happens to stone. It just seems that the statues understand something more than I about the metamorphosis of wrought time on flesh. We are ghosts, fleeting im

Age, not the physical grinding of bone; not the deep fatigue of flesh wanting to shed away from a soul; rather, age, the loss of that youthful gleam that once made days feel mysterious and new, creeps in, I think, when you stop caring enough about the details around you to act on them, when questioning becomes an end in itself and not a means toward exploration, when life (the minutiae of it) can’t move you anymore. I walked back barefooted from the compost bin head down, watching the sandy, scrub ground pass me by, and I saw an upturned mushroom, white stem, white cap, laying on its side knocked down or half eaten, or something. It was an opportunity for questions and speculation and field guides and a tiny measure of adventure, but I walked by, maybe satisfied in having noticed it all, and I knew in that instant I was old. I took my annual mortality walk at Morgan Creek. High water forced me to roll up my pants, hike them above my knees, and wade my sun-starved, hairy thighs

Early morning breakfast was waiting for me after a shower. What was it? Peanut butter and bread, coconut flakes, chocolate and dates, decaf coffee. Then, out the door, on the bus, to the Reykjavik domestic airport to pick up a rental car. It was cold, windy, wet, and grey. We took the car into the Golden Circle, passing through a gauntlet of roundabouts, then reaching the desolate, black ash and boulder hills. An hour more, and we reached Thingvellir, the traditional gathering place of Icelandic governing councils and the tectonic edge of North America. There a cliff rears up over a boggy plain. Crystal blue water runs through rock gashes, and the bottoms glitter with kronor coin. We stopped to sit at an old church and warm ourselves before we crossed the road to find (after a bit of searching) a trail out into the bald wilderness. It runs over hard, grooved stone, and thick moss carpets. It leaps over a tear in the earth’s crust. Stone pilings or cairns marked our progress.

Our City Cards activated at 9 am. We were in the bus by 10 headed to the culture museum where we learned about the thousand year history of the island, it’s remarkable peace, and its importance as a preserver of ancient texts. We went back the the apartment for lunch. Then, we planned a couple adventures in the northeast part of the city. We walked to the Sveinsson Sculpture museum, set amidst the Laugardalar neighborhood. With the sun and the cool air, we and strolled about the grounds and touched and photographed the organic, feminine sculptures: a suckling babe, the nude shapely female form, a broad shouldered person carrying water. The facade of the bounding was white plaster and ancient looking, like the pyramids, and domed in one part. Inside, marble floors and a broad foyer with coffee and a mock workshop. We were through the museum (with its paper weight models of Sun Voyager) and starting down the arching steps into the rotund hall when a short dark man interrupted us

Back in Reykjavik, we planned to see the downtown and museums. We waited for Adam to arrive and let him use the air BnB’s shower. The we drove downtown, meandered, and finally grabbed lunch. We walked afterwards, window shopped, picked up City Cards at City Hall, shopped, and decided that we’d save the museums for the morrow. I snapped pics of graffiti in-between ogling the wool products. We stopped for coffee and finally found some decaf with a free side of snobbery. We walked along the water before dinner, paying a rather solemn visit to the Sun Voyager sculpture. For dinner we decided to eat out at the Old Iceland restaurant. As Adam dropped us off, we exchanged dollars and kronor for a gas card, which we never used. That night I drank hot chocolate and fried my brain researching Icelandic wool.

We camped under the waterfalls in part because it was close to the ferry to Vestmannaeyjar. We planned a quick out-and-back trip. The main point of the ride was to bird watch. Adam brought his zoom lens camera. In all we stayed out there only long enough to walk a few blocks. Then, we returned to the mainland and parted ways with plans to meet again in the morrow. On the way back to Reykjavík, we returned to the hot river. First we bought bread and coffee at a roadside bakery. Then, ate lunch at a park in the city as rain drizzled. Then, parked down the road from the trail head and started the long, sulfurous hike into the hills, with flies swarming is in the beginning. A reddish German Sheppard walked in front of us, and it’s owner (who called to the dog in German) said, “He likes you.” Finally we reached the river and lay down in a pool created by a stone wall. It was luxuriously warm. We returned the van after a quick stop by the rental apartment, where we met the owner and to

Adam went West, back to the glacier, but we stayed behind, slept in, made breakfast (peanut butter, bread, dates, coconut). We had a slice for Adan when he returned. Caravan to Vik (back to Vik for us - but Adam was circumventing the island clockwise, so it was new for him). On the way, we stopped for pictures in the tumbled bouldered landscape. Susan found a path into the boulders. A carpet of soft moss, dead and brown from foot traffic. We were indulgent to walk the path. Vik got bread, groceries, lunch, and a beer (.8 percent!) at the Kronor then drove around the seaside cliff to a black sand beach. In fact, it wasn’t so much sand as it was tiny black pebbles, smoothed and soft. I spread out my old travel poncho and we ate on it. Susan spied puffins floating at sea. A crowd gathered down the beach at the basalt columns, and we walked down there too and imagined the gigantic lava flow that would have created them. We parted. Susan and I climbed Hellgafell, Holly Mountain

Bright, early sun. Groggy head, back to bed. We got up finally around 11. Peanut butter on bread with dates on top. Decaf coffee to wash it down. Throughout this trip, this combination (along with butter and sardines) was heaven on earth. Drove out of the campsite, but before leaving, read about the high-land hikes around Vik. Two in particular climbed opposite cliffs that stood on either side of the town. (The town is so tiny, the opposite ends are closer than a mile, as the crow flies.) One hike in particular caught my eye. It started at a ancient church and went up, pastorally, over wild fields. I wanted to see the mountain, but that would have to wait. We had a schedule and a friend to meet on the East side of the island. Across the street was a wool store and a grocery. We stopped for more bread and also took a cup of coffee at the cafe. On the way out of town, we stopped at one gas station (closed), then another, and struggled to figure out how to pay at the gas mach

Early arrival. Lost my blue ball cap on the plane. Hope it finds a hip head to wear. Keflavik airport, bleary eyes. To make everything OK, I bought us a tuna sandwich and full strength coffee. Flybus to Nord hotel. Rain walk to GoCamper. An introduction to Iceland weather. Then, introduction to the camper van. Around the corner, we found a Kronor grocery for bread, butter, peanut butter, dates, etc., and lunch (tuna again!). East on highway 1. The ground steamed as we crossed the great rift between continental plates. Furious geology. At Hot River, we stopped to dip in the river, but with most tired eyes, we slept instead. Later we awoke and couldn’t will ourselves out into the cool rain to reach the spring. So, we went on. Selfoss, Hella. Pasture land with sheep. Fresh cut fields. Then, black cliffs and sand. Sunshine in the evening. Left the rain in the West. Stopped at a couple waterfalls. Susan went behind the big one. Vik is nestled between great cliffs an

Expansive kitchen, amazing space. Espresso machine, but no coffee pot or French press. No cutting board. No dish soap. Ate chicken legs and salad outside as the pool boy worked. Then, downtown Napa for decaf and handfuls of almonds and raisins. Delight. Drove south out of the valley to San Pablo Bay, and stopped in the wildlife refuge. I sat in the car and ate chocolate and raisins while Susan explored the path. The tide was low and the path overgrown. She turned back and we went further south. Saw the city emerging behind shipping cranes. Dirty rental in Oakland. One extreme to the other. We are the tendrils of gentrification. The Oakland Bay Bridge, manic - a suspension bridge, a causeway - and slow. Warm in Oakland but cold in San Francisco after returning the rental. BART to Mission. Burma Love. Talking Susan out of lotus root and into basil chicken. A wind that demanded coffee. Afterwards, we searched for an onion and razor blades. Found both. Also, found red wine

Tip tapping awoke me. Archie digging under the garden plastic? Probably just the cold, grey rain. We left the farm and the coast, turning inland, and drove through second growth redwood stands. Navarro River Redwoods State Park. Exquisite greenery, sorrel footed, moss covered bay laurel. The stumps of the first growth are still there refusing to decay, hinting at the magnormous forests that no longer exist, save in rare pockets. As soon as the narrow ravine opened into arable land, the redwoods disappeared and we saw acres of grape vines, broad shouldered, arms reaching up to heaven, promising offerings of sugar and acid. Car sick on 128. Winding away. Hills not unlike Ohio. Blooming black locust. Salty chicken, parking lot lunch, classless but loving it. Champagne cave tour. Cool humidity. Insight, confirmation, confoundation. After a five course tasting, the world sparkled in the sunlight, and the broad Napa valley was filled with promise. A private room in a spaciou

Late in the morning we went to the farm kitchen. Coffee, salad, chocolate etc.. Met with our host, Steve, and learned of his spirit guide. Redwood table. Redwood cabinets. A leaning, dark, naked piano. Susan sat on a picnic bench and worked on employment. I trained in the sunshine. Squats with garden stones. Sock fisted pull-ups. Then, digging around the garden with Archie, the dog. We came down out of the hills into Little River. The sapphire ocean glinted in the sunlight, a more impressive blue than the clear sky. White cream waves frothed. Bull kelp nodded. The great cliffs were scooped out by a wide stream leaving a pebbly, black sand beach. Parked just behind the beach was a rusty, yellow bus, advertising sea cave tours in bubble letters. We joined the gathering group: kids, missionary wanna-be’s. I stripped down and got into a wetsuit. The lot of us kayaked out into the waves and the opal, jade water, sunlight filtering down in rays through the bland, salty kelp. The

A restless morning, dewed grass, cool misty mist. A close garden. No room for headstands. We drove around the pirate hook coast of Point Reyes to the end of the world. Open field pastures with fences; cordoned, mother cow machines steaming away. Out at the edge of the land, wading through wildflowers, lupine, cow parsnip. Binocular vision. We could see San Francisco and the top spires of the Golden Bridge. It was a clear day. Elephant seals battled and lowed a hundred feet below. Gulls sat on nests down at chimney rock. “The cliffs are like cake,” Susan said. Yes, and like sine waves, I thought. It was as if a giant had taken a knife and carved out a long, high, curved coast from rollicking hills. Hazelnut sponge with green mint ice cream. Or, maybe like a giant might come along and run a stylus needle over them to play some low groaning earth music. No salads to be found in Bodega Bay, so taco lunch instead. Then up highway 1, twisting along the cliffs that slow drip

Simple food breakfast. Meat and salad. Nuts and shaved coconut. Chocolate and raisins and coffee. Ecstasy before overload. We planned two hikes as a compromise. First, back around the lagoon to Stinson and a busy Tamalpais trail that wound over terrifying poison oak scrub land, back into a hidden hollow. Green moss covering the bay laurel, dozens of fern species, and redwood. Life springing from life, from death. Trees growing on trees. Trees growing from trees. Where a massive redwood was cut off, a second had sprung up, equally as impressive. Blue rocks under rushing water not unlike Bear Mine Trail, years ago. A heavy climb, rock steps and polished black roots. Cold breeze at the ranger station and acorn woodpeckers. Down the trail was much easier, much colder. We then got lunch in town at a counter service joint. We modeled salads for all the out of towners. My fish, yes, was good, and, no, not over cooked. That evening, we drove down Mesa road. Steel antennas, head st

Cheap motel morning, then breakfast at Leanne’s 24x7 dinner. A multitude of errands took us from Millbrae, over the hills into Golden Gate Park, to Geary Street. We drove (slowly) over the Golden Gate Bridge, pixelated, dirty, peeling paint. Traffic in Marin County. Along the Scenic Highway, testing the brakes, trying not to make the cars behind me suffer. Down into Stinson Beach. Pulled over before Bolinas to watch the seals in the lagoon. Low tide. In the town (Bolinas), saw men dressed like me: surplus coats and jungle hats. Is this my home? Is this where I belong? Lunch and groceries, then checked into the nymph garden home. Marvel and wonder at the garden neighborhood. Alfheim. Trek to the beach. Tide pools, melting cliffs, crumbling rock. Wolf dog, big brown eyes. Fenrir waiting to eat the world. Biding time till the end of days. Finding poison oak. Searching for hummingbirds. Finding hummingbirds. Simple dinner. Sweat pants.

Dinner Friday night. Going to the coast feels transformative. In the first place, I watch the landscape transform. Mixed hardwoods give way to dominant pine and low scrubby oak. Clay yields to sand. Urbane wealth fades away and you're left with rural mystery. “What do these people do,” Susan asked watching the cinder block houses with rusty metal roofs fly by somewhere between Wallace and Maple Hill. We drove deep into the backwood sand flats, flying around a twisted rural highway. There's also something that changes in me as I relax my go-go-go (not go-go) personality. So, I drove soaking in the the beautiful symmetry between spring and fall. The trees are red and orange in both seasons, though spring is more subdued, a bit hazy. Jessimine was in bloom, gold and green, growing up and over the cedar and pine at forest edges. Susan pulled out a small Casio keyboard and gave me a private chamber recital: Circle of Life, Kumbayah, Down in the Valley, etc., etc., just the cl

When the rain comes, water pools on the yard and sits for days and seeps into the clay. Heavy, hammer-handed, wet slop; thunder, rumbling, unyielding clay. From indignant and rock hard to asphyxiating and slick with nothing between but dread at my next battle with it. But, then again, I am committed to it, bound to it somehow, and determined to tame it. Such was the scene Friday in front of my house, at a low spot where the rain collects. I had my head down in an iris patch, digging in soppy clay, remarking at the purple iridescence of the flowers and the yellow sparkle of pine pollen, like light from the stars against a summer dusk that I saw once long ago in Athens, laying on my back at the Ridges, alone, waiting for darkness to fall complete so I might walk the forest at night and confront - what else - fear! A grape scent wafted up, brought me back to the present, and I saw Susan smiling, watching me from the porch. “We’ve been invited to dinner,” said she. “Get out of those ove

A statue in the Dallas historic district. A big Texas moon, just risen over the long, low horizon, stared down as I sat for my ride. The moon bent its phantom head down to the great expanse. It seemed to find something interesting to watch, but what it was, and how far I’d have to ride to find it, no one can say. I’d have to imagine the answer is somewhere in the coarse, lonely song of a cow rustler, toasted over red embers, heavy with the weight of leather, stuck back in time, only a legend now. So was the scene on a Friday night, as I sat outside the grand Gaylord Texas, an opulent conference center and hotel, with rooms the size of football fields and carpets printed with cowboy boots, belt buckles, lassos, horseshoes, lone stars, wagon wheels, yellow roses, and cattle heads - a cornucopia of Texas cliches. I was there to work through the next seven days on a wireless location-based tracking project. It was a hard engagement with long days, but the evenings (when I got th

I think my eyes are starting to adjust to the Bay's expanse because when I look East to the Milpitas hills, on the drive back to San Jose, I can see what looked like one flat, two dimensional range suddenly has depth: a low ridge in the front, then a long space behind, followed by the high barren hills rising into the sky, merging with a purple cloud, bending south and west, finally becoming a glowing, molten sunset over Palo Alto. I hit the streets downtown in San Jose looking for food and found a burrito. San Jose might seem posh, overly hip, expensive on first glance, but there are cracks in the pavement - so to speak - where grunge, dirt life, alternative mindsets, independent thought   pokes through. Forget the phrase "a diamond in the rough." Flip it if you like (a rough in the diamond), or abandon it altogether for something more real: a dandelion in the concrete. So, I found myself at an art collective and performance space (and bike co-op) o

I asked Kate about the leaves - if they are really just turning now - in the car after she picked me up from my hotel, and she smiled and nodded. "These deciduous trees aren't native," she said, and I realized my whole view on the Bay - probably even life itself - was colored by Eastern winters. She swooped down after work to ferry me across the Bay into San Mateo, and then north into San Francisco and the Mission District, where I ate a half chicken with roasted vegetables and chocolate cake. Rob drank wine and coffee even though he was not quite over a bout of flu. Kate ate half her empanada and then rubbed her belly and looked uncomfortable, and she probably was, being near eight months pregnant. Back in the car, when Kate pulled up to the hotel, I gave her the Mother Goose book hoping that their child might find some joy in it. Maybe it's the book, or subconscious desire, or a biological clock, I've been dreaming about children and parenting thi

Riding the BART to Berkeley for the experience of it, enrapt by the heavenly haw of the train, cloying inebriation. The low tenor, rubber squeals near Oakland are horrendous, almost painful, and I'd plug my ears except for the futility of it - something I think the locals understand since they stare blankly ahead through it all, unmoved and unmoving. The incorporeal soprano consumes me, vibrates my head, scrambles my thoughts. It's ecstatic, histamine glory, a hot shower release. I swear to God, it's a magic sound.  I walked the wide avenue in Berkeley wide eyed, like a freshman on campus, dodged into a book store, and searched through the comic books. There was an old man in a chair clutching a large book, nodding, asleep. No one seemed to mind. I perused for a bit and finally settled an a trio of Wonder Woman comics and a book of nursery rhymes, black and white checkered, 'The Real Mother Goose', which I used to read out of it as a child. I loved the way tho

I return to the wonder bowl of the West, the Bay, with its invisible topology that boggles my mind - I have a hard time judging distances here - for the second and final visit to Silicon Valley, where I'm struggling against long odds to diagnose a WiFi problem.  In San Jose as I leave the airport, it is raining. On the cab ride to Fremont, I'm looking at those desolate hills southeast of the Bay in Milpitas County, and I detect a hue of green where, one month back, there was only thirsty brown. It would seem that the country, the flora, is awake, brimming with the prospect of spring, so juxtaposed against my memories of long, dry summer days. It must happen every year: arid summer days that shrivel, desiccate, turn to paper and flake away to reveal Autumn, moon cool nights and December, electric winter. (I hope the people here have enough sense to use LED bulbs in their faux icicle holiday lights. Humbug.) The bright, young green of the grass - the green of hope not envy -